


let’s get away, just me and you

by doctormissy



Series: the eyes emoji squad [4]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), DCU, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Bad Decisions, Bisexual Bruce Wayne, Bisexual Oliver Queen, Boys In Love, But just a little, Canon Universe, Developing Relationship, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Feels, First Kiss, Las Vegas Wedding, M/M, Partying, Past, Post-Gotham Series Finale, Pre-Queen's Gambit (Arrow TV 2012), Sad, Texting, Time Skips, and the 2006 gala, featuring everyone's favourite wedding story, literally no one can tell me this isn't canon, rich boys being rich boys, so might as well, they're both human disasters, we know nothing about what happened between 2002-2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 17:31:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19067320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormissy/pseuds/doctormissy
Summary: Has Bruce Wayne left Gotham to hang out in Star City recently? No.But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t before.Oliver Queen and Bruce Wayne go way back. Everyone knows that. What is not common knowledge, though, is a) that they’rebothmasked vigilantes running around their respective cities at night, b) justhow wellthey know each other.Or, in other words, how Oliver Queen met Bruce Wayne and all that came after, including that one time they got married in Vegas.





	let’s get away, just me and you

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title: The Story Everyone Loves To Hear About, Especially Lucifer. and people did actually ask for it (months ago)! so here it is, mostly written on the memo app on my phone at 1 am yesterday and then rewritten on my laptop. 
> 
> this is a companion piece to the chatfic _sunshinegirl changed the group's name to the bikings_ , but you don't need to know it to read this. you could do that anyway, though :) just a note: this is gotham!bruce two years after the end of the series if we ignore pretty much everything about the finale.
> 
> title from banks' _gimme_.

If someone had told Oliver back then that two simple words would change his life forever, he would’ve probably a) called then nuts, b) had a passing thought that actually, you know what, he was the son of billionaires after all, and bound to know names. Not necessarily in that order.

But if he knew _how_ big of a turn the life in question would make, well. _Nuts_  wouldn’t be all he’d call them.

The man in front of him—tall figure, elegant fingers, probably hiding a very nice form under that suit—extended his hand and introduced himself, ‘Bruce Wayne.’

Oliver offered a polite smile. ‘Oliver Queen,’ he said, ‘the pleasure’s all mine.’

They sipped at their champagne, and it was the beginning of an era.

 

 

The year was 2004. It was May; he was 19 and Bruce was 20. They were the reckless billionaire boys magazines liked to write about: one being the CEO of a worldwide company and the other an heir to one, both having too much time on their hands and girls greedy for money, power, glory tailing after them. There was bound to be a sense of understanding. Friendship, even.

Even if it all was just to escape the claws of press, attention, and pressure.

Oliver used to hotwire cars for less, honestly.

Now, well, he could show the Wayne heir, who was a little too stuck up in his opinion and _really_ needed the distraction—but who could blame him, the world’s most famous orphan—how to do that. Especially when his best friend Tommy was grounded again (not fair).

Bruce was only staying in Starling City for a week, but turns out you can do a _lot_  in a week when you have the money and just enough coffee and alcohol.

 

 

He learnt things, too. Not at school (pfft). He learnt things about people, and cities, and all the spicy rumours that went around the business world. Bruce knew all about those.

But mostly he learnt about Bruce, and boy, was he starting to be intrigued. Oliver soon found out the young playboy wasn’t all that there was to him, and the need to find out just _what_  made him and that butler of his (that was _definitely_  a secret agent kinda stare) so interesting just _nagged_ at him.

‘Wanna head to the club later? No girls, no people, you know. Just us. It’ll be fun,’ he asked on Friday. The night was still young.

‘Yeah, why not,’ Bruce said. ‘I live my best life during the night-time anyway.’

Now, _that_ Oliver could get behind.

Who’s to care how exactly Bruce meant that?

 

 

Before Bruce left, they exchanged numbers. It all went downhill from there, really.

Moira agreed that it was nice to have a friend from his line of work, though, and raised his phone budget despite her better judgement—little did she know Bruce travelled a lot and _not_  just across the States—and who was he to argue with his mother?

Well, in this case, anyway. He was still grounded for the summer. He had long forgotten why, but it must’ve been a lot of fun.

So Bruce and he started texting. Mostly about random tidbits of information, gossip, celebrities they met, girls they liked, places they’ve been, films they’ve seen, et cetera, et cetera. It was great.

When Bruce told him he was going to the Himalayas and wouldn’t be able to talk to him for a month, Oliver _should’ve_ got the hint, but no. He was still an idiot who thought the only thing you could do there was skiing.

He waited.

 

 

Side note: maybe he didn’t like just girls. But he didn’t tell him about that. He only told Tommy, and only because he’d caught him and that guy—Paul?—in a bar that one time, okay.

 

 

When the odd month later Bruce texted him again, saying he was back in Gotham, Oliver talked to him about the bat vigilante. He personally thought the guy was a myth and the whole issue was ridiculous, no matter _how many_ times Bruce said he was very real and doing good for the city.

****ive seen him, you know** **

Right. A man in a bat costume could be nothing but ridiculous, thanks very much.

Then he asked him to share a hypothetical drink with him (it was only 4 p.m. in Starling City but that could hardly stop him) and that was that. He had a _thing_  to attend. So did Bruce. Apparently, his _thing_  involved Mayor Cobblepot, while Oliver’s was a boring interview. At least the reporter was pretty. Lois something, was it?

She also asked him about _Batman_ , and repeated what he’d said to Bruce, with a laugh, and added that he would _never_  become a vigilante. They were _insane_.

 

 

(Three years. Shut up. He _knew_.)

 

 

The next time they actually saw each other was in August, and it was another one of those tedious fundraiser galas, which, although important, offered nothing to stimulate a guy’s brain. Other parts, if he got lucky, but seriously, the conversations made him want to jump out of the window.

Who cared Robert lifted the strict order of being grounded for two days. He _had_ _to_  make an appearance. It counted about as much as picking Thea up from school.

The fact that it took place in Gotham only made it more bearable, that’s all—and that statement was a paradox all right, because _Gotham_. Even its citizens agreed it was like living in hell, from what Oliver had heard. And seen. And smelt.

‘Why doesn’t everyone just leave?’ he wondered, nursing what could’ve been a third Martini.

‘The weirdest thing about Gotham is that no one ever _wants_ _to_  leave. You _can’t_  leave. It’s as much a part of you as your,’ a pause, ‘clothes.’

He tipped his head toward Bruce. ‘Those can be easily taken off.’

‘Not that then,’ Bruce actually _laughed_ , ‘but you get what I mean, right? You’d never move out of Starling City either.’ He was on his fifth drink. He leant closer, and Oliver definitely blamed those drinks.

‘Hmm. You don’t know that,’ he mused and took a sip. It was starting to taste bitter. ‘Hey, Bruce, maybe we could move somewhere together, to, like, Malibu or somewhere and have a big ass mansion and endless parties and control our companies from there.’

‘I actually own a beach house in Malibu. Wanna visit it someday?’

‘Yeah, I’d love to. That would be awesome!’

He really, really, _really_ should’ve known he was fucked then, but no, still an idiot.

He finished the drink and turned his attention to the hors d’oeuvres before he had any more _thoughts_.

 

 

Oliver didn’t manage to persuade his parents to let him visit Malibu for another three weeks—come on, it wasn’t even in a different state!

But better than not at all.

The house was enormous, all glass and minimalism and a magnificent view of the sea, and the perfect venue for _many_  tropical-themed parties just like he’d imagined. The week he spent there, the last week of August, was the second best week of his life.

(He’ll get to the best one, and also the worst in a way, in a minute.)

There was alcohol, pot, music, sun, water floats in cool pools, sea water, tan girls in bikinis and guys in nothing but swimwear; all that was missing from this Perfect Billionaire Vacation was a yacht. Oh, Bruce had one or two, but they were under “maintenance”. What a shame.

Even despite the lack of yachts, everything was perfect, and the words _best friend_  made an appearance at some point around Saturday. Tommy would surely forgive him for having to share the spotlight.

 

 

Sad eyes. Bruce had very sad eyes, Oliver noticed, and threw serious, broody gazes around when no one (or so he thought) was looking.

One could expect that from someone whose parents had been murdered right in front of him, the _sadness_ , but there was something else in that, too. It was as if… well. As if he was carrying more than just the weight of the tragedy, Wayne Enterprises, and more money than he could ever spend.

Or maybe Oliver just liked those eyes.

 

 

****I have to go again but we’ll stay in touch, right?** **

****Always** **

****How long?** **

****I don’t know** **

****

 

Christmas. He’d almost lost hope—he’d read enough tabloid articles about the random disappearances of Bruce Wayne in those months. But then again, the same papers wrote about the bat vigilante, so they couldn’t exactly be trustworthy, right?

Right.

Bruce was back with two words again, always two words. This time they were, ‘I’m sorry.’

Oliver didn’t do hugs, but he hugged his friend when he got out of that helicopter and knocked on the door of the Queen Mansion. He put on his usual social smile and said, ‘We live on the opposite sides of the country anyways, nothing to be sorry about!’ When they got inside, he offered him lunch and some wine and added, ‘Nothing can change between you and me.’

(That was a lie.)

 

 

The year was 2005. It was February; Oliver was still 19 for another three months and Bruce has just turned 21. And when a rowdy young man becomes an adult and reaches the legal drinking age, there’s no way it goes without a proper celebration.

They were on the phone. On the other side, Bruce said, the grin audible in his voice, ‘Vegas!’

‘You wanna celebrate in Vegas?’

‘Yeah! You in, Ollie?’

He was 19. He knew people. It was fine. ‘Sure! What better way to celebrate your birthday, right?’

‘You’re my man! I’ll bring lots of people and we can drink and gamble. It’ll be fun, like we had in Malibu.’

Oliver would swear there was a wink.

Oliver also should’ve seen this was a colossally bad idea, but he was _young_. There were still years left till he’ll have met all those people on that island in the middle of nowhere. He was young and totally fine and totally not crushing on Laurel Lance and, he’ll be damned if he says it out loud, ever so mysterious Bruce.

 

 

A casino in Las Vegas, an expensive hotel, too many drinks to be good for anyone, two billionaires, and their many friends. One would think to know how that ended up: they got a girl, maybe Laurel and Selina if they were lucky, made out with them, got married by Elvis, forgot in the morning, went back, got yelled at by everyone’s parents for doing this reckless thing and _you’re too young for this for Christ’s sake_ , and carried on being best friends.

Ha. One would _think_.

That might’ve happened if there hadn’t been this one crucial factor in the game: after getting properly hammered, nothing stopped them voicing their totally-not-real crush on each other.

Yeah. Oliver was surprised too. Bruce actually _liked him_? Bruce actually likedmen, for that matter? Huh. Maybe he should’ve realised that one too, but young and stupid, remember?

‘You do?’ Oliver, still flabbergasted, asked. His glassy eyes tried to focus on Bruce’s gorgeous face (that _chin_ ); one hand gripped his shoulder as both a gesture of intimacy and need for support. ‘You… you like me?’

Bruce swayed a little and kissed him instead of an answer.

Blame the alcohol, but the cliché romantic comedy stars were _there_. The kiss was sloppy and weird and Bruce pulled away pretty quickly—but it was real. Theirs.

Drunk and stupid.

Oliver grinned and pulled Bruce in for another kiss; harder, more demanding. It tasted of pizza and drinks and a year of unfulfilled wishes.

Who cared people stared. They could buy this whole place if they wanted to.

Oliver’s hand found Bruce’s hair (so soft); the other one was lost somewhere on his middle. When he felt Bruce pulling at his lower lip and his breath running out, he knew he was _doomed_. And that was before the tongues came into play.

No, scratch that—he was doomed when thirty minutes and half a bottle of Patron later in their hotel room, dishevelled, breathless, Bruce said _four_ words, ‘We should get married.’

Definitely, absolutely not a, ‘Great idea!’

Fuck. Fuck those bad decisions that always seemed good at the moment. Also maybe fuck me, like, now.

‘Take those clothes off then.’ Bruce was already fumbling at the buttons of his shirt. The dreamy look on his face—beautiful. Bruce looked at him like he was the moon and he could definitely get used to seeing that more often.

But, hang on. Did Oliver really say that out loud? _Fuck_. He was so doomed. He climbed up as much as one could when pinned to the mattress by someone who shouldn’t be so _well-defined_  but somehow was—seriously, did he have a private gym in his manor or what?—and pulled his half-undone shirt down over his head.

 

 

They did indeed get married by Elvis—not the real thing, obviously, but pretty close. Give it a few years and the time travellers will have agreed. They went for the whole extravaganza, because why the hell not, the money was hardly the problem! Limousine, slapdash personalised vows, rose petals, cheesy songs sung by the man himself.

More alcohol. More inappropriate kissing. More everything.

More pain in the morning after, head and everywhere else, but at least they could stay in those luxurious white sheets all day and be difficult about room service. Life was meant to be lived!

Oliver and Bruce made the best out of being almost-20 and freshly-21, and it was _infinitely_ better than that week in Malibu. For once, they didn’t have to bother with random people asking for the attention and instead took all that they couldn’t back then.

Oliver was on the verge of falling asleep when he was the one to whisper four words, or one word followed by three, ‘Bruce?’

‘Mhmmm.’

‘I love you.’

He didn’t stay conscious long enough to know if he said it back. He didn’t need to. He could feel two things in his heart: a) he did love him too, b) this wasn’t going to last anyway, because Bruce would always disappear again and never explain anything, c) not to mention his parents, d) he should stop drinking. Okay, that was four things. And—shit.

The thoughts made him incredibly sad.

He woke up entangled with Bruce, dropped a kiss on his head, and went to the bathroom, trying to convince himself to stop thinking about things.

 

 

They spent five days in Vegas. On the fifth day, Oliver got a call. It was Moira, and she was fuming. Apparently, a photo of the two of them leaving a wedding chapel made the front page in at least five different newspapers and many, many more internet articles.

They were rich, that was hardly their problem! Let people say what they want! Hell, Bruce and he could buy an island in the Caribbean and live there forever, nevermind about Malibu. They could sweep this “scandal” under the rug and live without a care in the world.

His parents had a different point of view. Oliver wondered if things would be different had he married a woman.

He grudgingly took Bruce and their private jet and flew to Starling City.

 

 

Two words, again, but this time they cut deep, ‘We can’t.’

‘What do you mean, _we can’t_?! Screw my parents! Screw what they think!’ He was gripping a chair and resisting the urge to throw it across the room. His knuckles were white.

‘It’s not just that, it’s—’ Bruce hid his face in his hands and took a deep breath. ‘Everything. You know we can’t stay married, Ollie.’

He did, but he didn’t want to.

He let go of the chair and went to kiss Bruce.

 

 

Five days. It wasn’t even a week, but it was still the best week of his life. And then this crooked society’s need to conform to certain rules and norms crumbled it like a piece of paper and threw it away.

They had to annul the marriage. Obviously. So they did, while saying _fuck the society_ and agreed to spend the _entire_  summer in that Malibu house this time, everyone else be damned.

No one could throw the feelings away.

 

 

The year was 2006. It was June, Oliver was 21, Bruce was 22. They met for the first time since they parted ways last September. It was another one of those tedious fundraiser gala events—you know the story.

Except.

When Oliver sipped on his drink and chattered with his girlfriend Laurel, her sister Sara, and Tommy, and Bruce approached him, there was this boy with him, couldn’t be more than eleven. Oliver immediately placed him as the only surviving Flying Grayson—Richard, his brain supplied a second later. Bruce introduced him as his adoptive son.

Look at that.

Richard—‘Everyone calls me Dick’—looked a lot like Bruce could’ve when he was his age, and Oliver felt for him. He felt for Bruce. Something. Still. Always. Laurel wrapped her arm around his waist and smiled at the boy. He didn’t smile back.

It was the line of tragedies in that family.

They exchanged a few polite words, clinked glasses, made introductions as if nothing had happened. Sara threw a lot of looks Bruce’s way, and Bruce threw looks her way, and _please don’t have sex that would be weird_ , Oliver thought, but who was he to tell them what to do?

They were different people now.

 

 

The year was 2007. He was still dating Laurel, but he took Sara on the Gambit and was the one who made it weird. Bruce and he still texted from time to time, but it hasn’t been the same since five days after Vegas.

****Bruce, I fucked up** **

****many times, yeah :-) what did you do?** **

He never got to reply. The ship sunk and he ended up on an island in the middle of nowhere.

 

 

The year was 2012, and Oliver has just come back from hell. He fixed his appearance; did all the interviews; hugged all the people who missed him; told Thea how incredibly beautiful and grown up she looked.

Then he opened the internet and searched for two words: Bruce Wayne.

There was a Wikipedia page. He has not only married Selina Kyle and had a daughter with her (Helena, 3), but also adopted another orphan boy (Jason, 12), started a charity to support disabled people, and invented so much new technology he topped even Steve Jobs. Good for him.

Oliver, well, he had become a vigilante. Oh, the irony.

(But he still didn’t believe in Batman. That whole thing was preposterous.)

He found the phone Moira—now married to Walter! honestly!—had given him and entered Bruce’s number, which he remembered every digit of, but then he thought better of it and took Father’s list instead. It was time to do his job.

 

 

2019 began five days ago, and Oliver was 33. Sara has added Bruce to this group chat of theirs. They confirmed his suspicions from 2006 about twenty seconds later (they _had_  slept together and it was _more_ than weird). Everything spiralled from there.

She claimed Bruce was Batman, and Oliver said, as always, that that was nonsense, but then Bruce said it _was_ true and he was trained by Ra’s al Ghul and had a son with Talia (Damian; he had  _met_ the child!) and was gone for three years and had a thing with Lucifer Morningstar and had six kids now.

It all _clicked_.

It, weirdly enough, made sense.

The disappearances. The weight he’s been carrying around. The scars Oliver had noticed in bed and never talked about. Everything.

Bruce played it off as nonchalant and continued to chat. Oliver was confused but tried to be nonchalant about it as well and asked all those questions he didn’t have the courage to ask for the past seven years.

‘I’ve been an idiot,’ Oliver said to himself, and next to him, Felicity laughed and said, ‘I have no idea what’s this about but yeah, definitely.’

She didn’t even have the whole picture. No one but Alfred, who would die to keep a secret, and the two of them did, and if he were lucky, it would stay that way.

 

 

He was _not_ lucky, because Bruce spilt the story only two days later. The one thing that was _theirs_. The five days no one could take away from them. Oh well.

But, yeah. Idiot. He should’ve seen it coming, especially when Sara & Barry & Kara were involved. Those people were nothing but trouble if you asked him.

A notification buzzed on Oliver’s phone. He unlocked it without thinking twice about it, and then he actually had to double check because _was that from Bruce_? It’s been _seven years_!

****we should have a drink sometimes, just like the old times** **

****you and me against the world** **

****Good idea** **

Seven years, almost fourteen since that summer, but not _everything_  necessarily had to change. He clearly still had trouble telling what was actually a good idea and what was a spectacularly bad one when it came to Bruce Wayne.

****perfect** **

****Vegas?** **

****I hope you’re kidding** **

_****Batman** ** _

****you tell me, Green Arrow** **

 


End file.
